Dear Mother and Father,
I am sorry, I have missed the mail. I started this some time ago, but have not had a chance to touch it since. I expect you will think this excuse is becoming rather frequent, but really these days it is getting beyond; one has no spare time. So please don't worry if you don't get a letter. Please don't think we are over worked, but there is always that glorious uncertainty as to what your next job is. We have been three days at our destination digging in and preparing to give the Hun an unhealthy time. Thank goodness we are not getting at us what he is getting from us. The noise alone from bursting shells must wreck his nerves.
We saw the sun today, the first time for a fortnight. We have not had a very enjoyable time here as have no cover for the men. What there is is like a sieve, which makes it rather depressing. And, of course, we have a good deal of snow which, thank goodness, did not stay on the ground long. We are not nearly so badly off as the feet. The trenches are the worst thing I have ever seen. I was in one trench yesterday which was over my knees and all of them are over the knees in slimy mud. I am sure we will soon be web-footed. Considering all this, it is marvellous how the men keep in health. The poor horses are suffering worse than anything else at present. Some people are losing as many as nine a night from cold. It is a big percentage out of 170 a head.
I must close. Excuse hurried note.
from your loving son,
Bertie
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